


Of Otters

by teapartyat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapartyat221b/pseuds/teapartyat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John still dreams about Sherlock. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Otters

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble I wrote for a friend. This is the first time I've tread writing fanfiction since I was about 13, so hopefully it's not too dreadful. Any concrit would be greatly appreciated.

"Did you know that otters hold hands while they're sleeping so they won't be seperated?" John asks, trying to keep his face neutral, but to his horror a blush begins to creep up his neck. They're standing outside an exhibit at the zoo, where Sherlock had insisted they go to collect data for a case. 

"Do they," Sherlock murmurs, looking down at John with a suddenly serious expression. His eyes are curious and analytical, but beneath the sharp blue is something softer. 

"I..." John begins, but he can't remember what he had wanted to say. He finds himself leaning towards Sherlock without realizing it, and nearly gasps when he sees the other man shift subtly in anticipation. The heat is rising to his cheeks now, and before he can let his brain tell him what an awful idea this is, he jerks his hand out and grabs for Sherlock's wrist. But his fingers only wrap around air; suddenly Sherlock is gone, and only the faint smell of chemicals and warmth lingers in the air, and John is left grasping, a hole reopening in his shoulder where a bullet is suddenly shredding into his body with lightning white pain. And how could he have forgotten, they weren't at the zoo at all, they were on the losing side of a firefight under the blaring Afghan sun. 

Some distant part of him is aware that he is bleeding, but he doesn't feel it now, he is fixated. He keeps running, ignoring the cries of his comrades as they writhe around him; he is only looking for one thing. He finds it; a familiar mass of black curls, matted and sticky with blood, dying the sand red. Sherlock is looking up at him with a resolute patience, blood running around his eyes, the collar of his uniform popped up around his neck. But his spine is broken and his arm twisted at an impossible angle and he can't really be looking at him at all. John reaches for his medical kit, but of course he's left it back at Baker Street, how could he be so foolish--

"John," Sherlock says, his voice small. And that is the most wrong of all, because how could Sherlock's powerful voice ever be small. "John." 

"Sherlock," John starts, and he is crying now. But he never did cry, not then. And suddenly John knows that he is not here in Afghanistan, either. He reaches down and lays a hand softly on Sherlock's head and tilts it. The back of his head is smashed in on the sidewalk, and the temperature drops and they are outside St. Bartholomew's Hospital now, a crowd is beginning to form. 

"I have so many thing to tell you," John says, his voice hitching, but he doesn't have time to care about that. He has so much to say, but Sherlock isn't here at all, he's buried beneath the ground and John couldn't stop it. "Sherlock, I-" 

"I know," Sherlock says, a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, and John laughs, a harsh barking sound. "Sentiment, John." 

John is lifting into the air now, and he grabs desperately for Sherlock's hand but he's not there anymore, not really. Only the scent of chemicals and blood follow him as he floats back into consciousness.


End file.
